


The Cure For Insomnia

by Luthien



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, First Time, Insomnia, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-12-01
Updated: 2001-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-05 23:44:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthien/pseuds/Luthien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the return from Pylea, Wesley can't sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cure For Insomnia

**Author's Note:**

> Set a few hours after the events of the final episode of Season 2, 'There's No Place Like Plrtz Glrb'.

There were people on the ceiling. They peeped out from behind shadowy trees that stretched across the flat expanse, barely contrasting with the glimmer of pale light that managed to reach the ceiling despite Wesley's mostly successful attempts at curtaining the window.

Wesley pushed his head back further into his flattened pillow and tried counting the shadow people; sheep had proved no use in helping him off to sleep tonight. Counting the people up there had always worked better for him, anyway. The problem was, there weren't all that many shadow people on this ceiling. It was plain and unadorned and completely unlike the ceilings of the house in which he'd grown up, where he'd first made the acquaintance of the ceiling folk. There were no lumps or bumps on the ceiling of his flat, no ornamental flourishes behind and within which the shadow people could conceal themselves. There were patches of flaking paint, to be sure, but none that captured the imagination like his favourite, the boy on the dragon who had lived near the centre of the ceiling kingdom of his childhood room. The boy on the dragon had been his companion--except on those nights when he occasionally transformed, for no good reason that Wesley could see, into a bent old woman with an impossibly large bun of hair on the back of her head.

Wesley had been what--eight?--when he'd been sent away to school. There were no shadow people living on the ceiling of his dormitory. None that he could ever see, at least. The lights installed in that bleak school room had been bright and unforgiving; after lights out, they were replaced with what had seemed to a terrified eight-year-old to be total darkness. There was no friendly half-light coming in through the window, or past the door--as had been the case at home--to encourage the shadow people to emerge from their hiding places.

He'd come home from school, that first year, to find that his room had been repainted in his absence and there was no evidence remaining to show that boy or dragon or old woman had ever existed. If Wesley had been given to sentimentality he would have said that he'd lost his oldest friend. As it was, he felt a mild regret. It was the first time he'd experienced the emotion, but far from the last in the life that followed. He felt mild regret now, as his thoughts led him towards home. He regretted, in a tepid way, that he missed home as it had been rather than as it was now. He made a point of reminding himself of that, too, on those occasions when the sheer alien American-ness of everything and everyone around him made him long for home. What he wanted did not exist in the present day. Perhaps it had never existed.

Irritably, Wesley pulled the pillow from beneath his head and threw it onto the floor. He rolled onto his side, trying to find some semblance of comfort. The cotton of the bottom sheet scratched his hot skin. He was too aware of everything that touched him tonight.

Trust the air conditioner to choose tonight to stop working completely. It was a stiflingly hot summer night, like nothing they ever had to deal with in England. Well, not when Wesley had lived there, anyway; he'd heard they'd been experiencing unheard of temperatures at home already this year. He couldn't really imagine it. There had been tales told lately on the television news of people fainting in the heat, of cats going to sleep in the sun on window ledges and then falling off, of goldfishes boiling to death in village ponds. He suspected that that last was just American 'humour' at the expense of his pale-skinned race, unused to real summer heat as Americans saw it. Then again, after everything he'd read of and seen in his life, particularly since he'd come to America, was the thought of a goldfish boiling to death in a pond really so impossible to imagine? Perhaps it wasn't just the sun. Perhaps some supernatural force... He made a mental note to look up the history of that village when he had a spare moment. He should probably... Of course, it could just be nothing. After all, the weather was more than usually hot and at least a goldfish was something one would expect to find in a pond. Now if it had been, say, a bat in a boiling pond...

He should stop this line of thought. Stop it right now. He was still thinking like a Watcher--like an English Watcher. He was acting as though England was still his home--no, not quite right. He was acting as though England was still a place for which he had some responsibility.

Wesley flung himself onto his back again--and found himself staring at the ceiling once more.

Eight years old. He'd been eight years old.

There weren't even eight shadow people up there, as far as he could tell. Wesley re-started his count. One, two. Was that a man with a long sad face or a particularly evil-looking tree? Say a man, for the purposes of this exercise. A lonely man. Three...

He got to six and a half--he still wasn't sure about that snaking form in the corner, whether it was a tree or something more human, so he'd compromised by counting it as half--before he gave up. He wasn't going to sleep tonight. He might as well just lie here and contemplate 'ceilings he had known.' At least it kept his mind off... other subjects.

Perhaps one of the shadow people on this ceiling was a vampire. It shouldn't surprise him. Not in LA. Not anywhere. Perhaps a vampire with a soul. A vampire with a soul who's just been told... who's just lost...

So much for keeping his mind off other subjects. Wesley knew he wouldn't forget the look he'd seen on Angel's face tonight. Denial, and then a terrible surety. A look of desolation, finally, as the last shreds of hope had been torn away. Only hours ago but it already seemed as though their adventures in Pylea had occurred in another world. Well, they had, of course, but this world they'd come back to seemed no longer to be the one they had left. Not for Angel. Not for all who had cared for Buffy.

They had come in through the main entrance to the hotel, jubilant. It had lasted as far as the lobby. Willow had just stood there, still and silent. Her eyes, though. Her eyes spoke volumes. She'd said something, eventually. Explained. It hadn't taken many words. 'Glory' had been one. 'Buffy' another. And then they'd all just stood there in silence again. No words would suffice.

It had been a minute or two before Wesley realised that he should leave. The rest of the explanation was not for him. It belonged to those who had loved Buffy. He was not numbered among them, even though, like them, he was one of those who had failed her. And of course Gunn and Fred didn't even know her. She was just a name to them.

And Cordelia... Cordelia was organising Fred. She'd recovered quite suddenly from her initial silence and was making decisive noises about baths and soap and...

A sudden movement caught his attention. Gunn was fidgeting with his axe in the corner. Wesley suspected that Gunn was studiously not looking in Angel's direction.

Then Gunn looked up from his axe. He looked straight at Wesley.

Wesley turned away, quickly, and found his gaze settling on Angel again. Angel. Angel's loss. In all other things Wesley might be the leader, but he had no place in this. The mark of a good leader was to know what to do, and when to do it. Including when to leave well enough alone.

He turned on his heel, quite abruptly, and left Willow and Angel standing there, in the middle of the lobby. As he departed, he was vaguely aware of Cordelia hustling Fred out--and of Fred looking suitably grateful for the hustling. If the world in general was strange and difficult for her to deal with, how much more difficult must be emotions like those that Angel and Willow were broadcasting right, left and centre?

Wesley didn't recall bidding the others good night. He didn't remember leaving the hotel. He'd come to himself as he fitted his door key in the lock. He'd been relieved to find himself home and safe after the disturbing events of the evening. That look on Angel's face. Not something to be easily forgotten. It had made it all so real in a way that all Wesley's research into the terms of the curse never had. He'd never really focused much on the whole 'moment of perfect happiness' thing except insofar as it acted as a catalyst for issues that were of much greater concern to him. But now, after seeing Angel's face, he could not ignore the central point of it, the fact that _it_ existed, at least for Angel if for no one else.

True love.

Wesley had never believed in it. It wasn't that he'd consciously decided not to believe in it; more that he had come to that realisation along with many other truths of life as he grew up. It was just one more fairytale--except that of course in Wesley's case the actual fairytales were never outgrown. Not the more grisly ones and their ilk. Those were the core of his reality. Thinking about it now, it seemed appropriate, in a twisted sort of way, that a vampire, a fairytale creature, should be the one to prove to Wesley that true love, that great fairytale, was undeniably real. As real as a vampire with a soul, and possibly just as rare.

Nothing remotely like true love had ever come Wesley's way. There was something a trifle common about the concept, and Wesley had been kept well away from all things common from an early age.

His relationship with Virginia had been typical of so many of those in which he'd found himself involved in the past. A certain cool fondness had existed between them. It was a familiar, easy set-up for Wesley. It had hurt, of course it had, when Virginia had decided she didn't want to know him any more. The ending had hurt, but not as much as the still-open wound of Angel's betrayal--firing--them. Perhaps it was because Virginia's departure had been something he'd more or less expected. So her gentle--callous--initiation of their break-up hadn't twisted in his guts anything like, just for example, the way Gunn's words had not long after, when he'd told Wesley and Angel that he wasn't going to accompany them through the portal to search for Cordelia.

His parents wouldn't like Gunn--or Angel or Cordelia. They wouldn't have considered Virginia appropriate for him, either. To his father, especially, no colonial, however well off, could ever be more than the crassest form of _nouveau riche_ at best. It might be comfortable, in a way, to live as his father did; in a world of such certainty, where everyone, even those who lived beyond its boundaries, had a specific, inescapable place predetermined by birth. His father would have made a fine Nineteenth Century English gentleman, albeit one from the lower end of the upper middle class.

Watching was a calling that had fitted naturally into the ambit of the upper middle class, particularly in the society that had existed in the years of Victoria's reign. The upper middle class was comprised of those members of society a half-step below proper gentry, but still feeling themselves to be gentlemen. They were those who weren't quite landowners but nevertheless still sent their children to the right schools and would never have dreamt of lowering themselves to the indignity of engaging in Trade. Thus, their options were limited. A hundred years later, Wesley's options had been similarly limited. If not for the duty of Watching, Wesley would have otherwise gone into the military, or into one of the respectable professions--those being medicine and law, of course--or the Church. Perhaps he might have succeeded rather better at one of those occupations than had proved to be the case with being a Watcher.

It was funny how things turned out sometimes. Now he was none of those things. He had forged a new self, a confident, classless, trans-Atlantic self who owed as little as possible to the boy who had been brought up to be a Watcher in a relentlessly nice English household. Such a nice family, people had said, little knowing of the demons that lurked just beyond the public face.

Strange that he couldn't rid his thoughts of that boy tonight. It must be the fault of the shadow people. They were still up there, staring down at him whenever his gaze drifted upwards. The almost full moon was lower in the sky now, and its light combined with that of the streetlight outside the window to force the shadows further across the ceiling. The strange, lonely tree-man was curling up into his corner, cowering, trying to get away from the revealing light.

Wesley wondered what sort of society, if any, existed up there on the ceiling. Was it rigidly structured and prescriptive, or more casual and free? Did they have a fearless leader? Or was it some form of shadowy egalitarian utopia? Wesley hoped it was the latter; it wasn't as if there was anything like that down here on the ground. There was certainly nothing idyllic about the world in which he lived, for instance: fighting demons at every turn, dealing with a 'good' vampire who had nevertheless demonstrated a propensity to turn from the right path with alarming alacrity, trying to lead a disparate group of people who shared a common greater purpose and very little else.

Wesley rolled across the bed in remembered irritation--and caught his legs up in the top sheet that had been languishing halfway down the bed. He reached down with one hand to pull himself free but the sheet wouldn't budge. The more he pulled, the tighter it gleefully wrapped itself around his knees.

Typical. The Fates had a habit of transforming his soul-searching into bathos. He should be used to it by now, he decided as he reached down with both hands and struggled with the sheet some more.

Eventually, he managed to free his legs, and lay back against the pillows again in relief. He half-wished that there'd been someone else present to help him untangle the sheet. No one in particular, of course. It wasn't as if he missed Virginia--not much, anyway. It was just that lately he had become used to operating as part of a team, of always having at least one person around to back him up. A person upon whom he could rely utterly.

Wesley considered his last thought for a moment. It was true that he and Gunn, and Angel and Cordy, made an imperfect team, but he had been less than generous in his assessment that fighting evil was all they had in common. They were all as different as different could be, and they certainly squabbled and got on each other's nerves from time to time--not to say frequently--but, equally, they could all depend on their lives being safe in the others' keeping. Perhaps their group came close to the egalitarian ideal, even allowing for all the faults of its members. The place of everyone in the team was based on circumstance and ability rather than what the world said they were. Perhaps that only worked because they were all outsiders. Their work--no, their _calling_\--made them so.

Wesley still wasn't sure why he was the leader. Why did people keep putting him in charge of things? He'd asked Gunn that very question when they'd been in Pylea and he'd suddenly found himself leader of the local bandits. Gunn's reply, that he had no idea, was less than useful, and yet it had warmed Wesley, reminding him that he was not alone. Gunn was with him. His friend.

Wesley laughed quietly to himself, imagining Gunn's likely reaction to the concept of the lower upper middle class_._ For the first time, Wesley fully appreciated the sheer absurdity of the term. But then, Gunn had certainly managed to open Wesley's eyes to a few things since the friendship had developed between them. It hadn't always been so, though.

Gunn: young, black, urban, male. That was enough of a stereotype for some. But Wesley's initial reaction on first meeting Gunn had been more basic. He'd been on the defensive, literally, thinking he'd have to defend Cordelia's apartment from someone with a gun, before he'd realised that the person hammering on the door was, in fact, an ally. He'd still been feeling defensive when Gunn strode in, emanating impatience. Confronted with someone so alien in appearance and--apparently--somewhat hostile, Wesley had fallen back on the automatic reactions instilled in him so thoroughly during his upbringing. He'd focused on Gunn's mode of expression, and his careless seeming enunciation, and automatically marked Gunn in his mind as someone with whom he, Wesley, would have no point of connection, someone who was not what his father would have termed 'one of us.'

It was a reaction that sprang from something deeply ingrained, even though it was something of which Wesley had grown to be ashamed; even though he rejected his assessment of Gunn as unfair and unworthy a moment after he'd made it. As it turned out, the reaction achieved the opposite of its purpose and he was left feeling even more defensive than when Gunn first pounded on the door.

Wesley's second reaction was surprise: Gunn was taller than he'd expected from Angel's cursory description. Wesley was fairly tall himself, but Gunn was taller than he, by enough to notice. And not quite as young as Angel had led him to believe, either. Wesley supposed that every mortal must seem young to Angel.

The insistent wailing of a siren from somewhere in the neighbourhood pulled Wesley from his reverie, and the heat of the night assaulted him with renewed force. He rolled onto his side, yet again, trying to escape discomfort, even as he acknowledged the futility of his actions.

The glowing red face of the small digital clock on the bedside table caught his eye. 3.46AM. It wasn't all that late for him, of course; he frequently worked the whole night through. Still, this hour of the night, the next to last before dawn, was the loneliest of all when one had nothing to do but try to sleep. Not that being with other people was always everything it was cracked up to be, either. He remembered that look Gunn had given him, that night of their first meeting in Cordelia's apartment, before they'd barely exchanged a word.

"What's he fly?" Wesley had asked, innocently--understandably--enough, and been rewarded with that look. He had been summed up and dismissed, in the space of a few seconds, on the basis of one short sentence. Three small words. Well, four words it would have been, really, if he hadn't used the contraction.

He'd managed to live with the feeling, to pretend that he didn't care, that he hadn't noticed, that it hadn't happened, that he... And then Gunn had turned away halfway through his introduction. Halfway through Wesley's name.

It was familiar--too familiar. The quick, sharp sting of being assessed in an instant, and found wanting. Wesley had thought he'd learnt not to feel such things. He'd thought he'd taught himself not to notice such slights. But the barb turned out to be as sharp as it was familiar--exceedingly.

He'd looked after Gunn and known, deep down, that there went another one who would give no quarter to him. There was never any avenue of appeal, never a chance to say that he hadn't known that he was being evaluated, and if he could have been allowed even a second's warning... But he'd known that no more chances would be offered.

Looking back now, it still amazed Wesley that he'd been wrong. That sinking feeling of inevitability had been way off the mark.

He couldn't imagine his life without Gunn now.

That wasn't true, of course. His father would have frowned and coldly reproved him for indulging in histrionics if he'd ever heard Wesley utter something so emotive.

He didn't want to imagine his life without Gunn in it now. That was the truth.

If he'd thought about it at the time, he would have assumed that if he got closer to anyone as a result of Angel leaving--firing--them that person would have been Cordelia, with whom he bickered and fought, and fought beside. And he had grown closer to her, the sister he'd never had. But he'd grown even closer to Gunn. His friend.

He sometimes wondered why Gunn had not slipped into the role of leader after Angel left. After all, Gunn had previous--and recent--experience of leadership. He knew the ropes. But Gunn hadn't attempted to retrieve order from the shambles that remained. It had been Wesley who had steeled his resolve and organised them into some sort of action when something had to be done, when someone had to continue to fight the good fight. Perhaps that was why Gunn had followed where he led--simply because Wesley had voiced that resolution first.

Gunn had been Wesley's first follower, but he had proved to be far from the last. In Pylea Wesley had acquired a readymade band of followers--plus Gunn. Just as when Angel had left them, Wesley had found himself in the unwanted position of leading others in a desperate situation. He had no choice. The only alternative, to do nothing, was no option at all. And that meant that some of his men had to die.

It took courage to be a real leader, to make the hard decisions. Gunn had been there with him, of course, but his presence no longer provided comfort. Gunn was friend and counsellor but, when it came right down to it, he could only advise. Wesley was the leader. Wesley made the decisions. Wesley sent men to their deaths. The responsibility was Wesley's alone--and the blame. It mattered not at all that those men had gone willingly to their deaths, making the ultimate sacrifice to keep hope alive. Their faces would haunt Wesley's dreams--assuming that he could ever get to sleep again, he thought irritably. He brushed the sheet aside in a single savage movement before rolling onto his back yet again.

He couldn't help wondering what his father would have made of it all. Wesley was much more a real leader now than before Pylea, when he had tried to impress upon his father his role in the team. He had a feeling that all his achievements in Pylea would count for little with his father, even so. Somehow, Father would find an angle from which to view the events which would show Wesley's actions in a light of abject cowardice. And then he would start up again, about Wesley's failures, the shame of losing his job with the Watchers' Council, of being fired a second time...

Wesley closed his eyes, trying to shut out the memories, even while his innate honesty compelled him to admit that his father's assertions would be right, at least in one respect: he was a coward even yet. There was one decision that he had still failed to make. Or, rather, he had made the decision and had failed to act upon it.

The thing was, Gunn was his friend, his valued comrade-in-arms, and so much more than that, so many other things that Wesley could never put into words. Gunn was his--and Wesley hesitated before voicing the term in the quiet of the room--buddy. The word tasted strange in his mouth, but not unpleasantly so.

He shouldn't jeopardise their friendship. A friend shouldn't impose a difficult truth on a friend. Yet the shadow of that unspoken truth already lay over their friendship. Those unsaid words loomed large, even if Wesley was the only one who could see them. And perhaps he wasn't the only one who could see them. Perhaps Gunn--?

Who could say for sure? Perhaps it didn't really make a lot of difference, anyway. He could not go back to how it had been before, in the early, comparatively innocent days of their friendship. He had to go forward, and that meant confronting the shadow. Even in his relatively limited experience, Wesley had no doubt that falsehoods worked to no good purpose in a friendship. And a lie of omission was still a lie.

Wesley rolled onto his stomach and punched the pillow beside him, relieving some of the irritation he felt. That and exhaustion--both weaknesses--were all that remained to him tonight, in the aftermath of the strength he'd had to exhibit in Pylea. He was too tired to sleep. He might as well just do the thing properly and get out of bed. Getting up would certainly be more productive than lying here and brooding over what was past. What could not be changed. He could never hope to compete with Angel in the brooding stakes, anyway--

The sudden banging on the door to his flat had Wesley rolling out of bed and into a defensive crouch under the window in not much more than one second flat. After another second passed, his brain registered that someone was trying to gain admittance rather than attempting to break down the door. He reached automatically for his glasses on the stand by the bed and thrust them on with one hand as he got to his feet. He stopped just long enough to grab his dressing-gown--robe--from the wardrobe and pulled it on over his nakedness as he left the room.

The knocking started up again and Wesley almost fell over a chair in his haste to get to the door of the flat before the din woke his upstairs neighbour, Mrs Starns. Wesley couldn't afford too many loud, late night visitors. Not after the last time.

He reached the door and started feeling around on the wall for the light switch.

"Who is it? I warn you, I'm armed and dangerous!" He tried to sound fierce, then blinked, temporarily blinded as his fingers found the switch and the light came on.

"Yeah, I know. Let me in before the sense of deja vu overwhelms me, will you?"

Gunn.

Some of the tension left Wesley's body. It was only when his mouth opened to let out a sigh that he realised that he was smiling.

He forced his features into a neutral expression as he unfastened the locks and opened the door. It was indeed Gunn. Wesley could feel the smile returning to his face. There he was. Right there, at Wesley's door.

At his door.

At almost four AM.

Why exactly?

It was a good question. Wesley decided to ask it. "Gunn, what are you--"

At virtually the same moment, the answering smile on Gunn's face turned to something very like shock. "Wes, what the hell are you wearing?"

Wesley looked down.

Oh.

He closed his eyes briefly. He wasn't wearing, as he'd believed, the American-style robe that Virginia had bought for him. No. This was something else. Something that ordinarily hung in his wardrobe and never saw the light of day. Like the robe he customarily wore, it was made of silk, and in the darkness, in a rush, the two garments would seem very much the same to the touch. It was an understandable mistake in the circumstances.

The similarities between the two garments ended there, though. What he was wearing could only ever be called a dressing-gown. More specifically, it was his mother's idea of a gentleman's dressing-gown. It was, well... It was sumptuous, with its gold embellishments against the background of emerald green silk. And totally out of place in its current surroundings.

Wesley looked back over at Gunn. Gunn, of course, was never one to stay shocked about anything for long. Damn the man's unusual sense of humour! He was biting back a huge grin, Wesley was sure of it.

"So, uh, English, what do you call this thing?"

He was looking at the front of it now. Not that Wesley was surprised about that. The front of the garment did rather tend to capture--demand--attention.

Wesley took refuge in facts. "The looped arrangement? It's called frogging. More often found on the jackets of military dress uniforms--a century or two ago, most commonly."

Gunn just looked at him. Sadly. It was a long look. So it seemed to Wesley, anyway. He stood there, watching Gunn watch him, wondering why Gunn didn't say anything more. Then he realised that Gunn was still standing on the other side of the doorway. Feeling more than a little remiss in his duties as a host, Wesley moved to one side to allow Gunn to enter the flat--and then found himself wondering all over again just why Gunn was here at all.

"So, was there any particular reason for this unexpected visit?" he enquired as he shut the door.

"You never had a friend pop in for tea before?"

"Tea time is in the afternoon." If not for the slight lifting of his eyebrows, the look he gave Gunn then would have been serious. "I'll make some if you'd like, though it's really not the best weather for it."

"Yeah. Why not?"

Gunn followed Wesley to the kitchen and watched from the doorway while Wesley prepared the tea. Water in the kettle, then setting it to the boil. Reaching for the tea canister with one hand and the teapot with the other, then off with the lids. Counting in the spoonfuls of tea leaves. An extra spoonful for the pot. All the time aware that Gunn's eyes were on him. Aware that Gunn still hadn't explained the reason for his visit.

The whistling of the kettle broke the silence. Wesley poured the boiling water into the pot, replaced the lid and left the tea to steep for a few minutes. He busied himself in the interim, retrieving cups and saucers from the cupboard by the sink. Sugar from the pantry. Milk from the refrigerator, just in case. And teaspoons and the strainer from a drawer. Then he assembled everything together on a tray and carried it into the sitting room.

They sat down companionably--Wesley thought it was companionably--on the sofa, and Wesley made the appropriate polite inquiries with regard to milk and sugar--both were rejected--before pouring the tea.

"So," Wesley said presently.

"So?"

"You didn't call in at this hour just to take tea."

"Why not? It wasn't like you were asleep." It was a statement. Gunn knew. Well he knew something, anyway. Perhaps it was just that Gunn knew Wesley. "Thought I'd just stop by and see what was so important here."

"Apart from this being my home, you mean?"

"Apart from everything that happened at the Hyperion just before you left."

And there it was. Gunn wasn't quite saying that the commander had deserted his post in time of strife. Not quite.

"You didn't think it could wait until a more civilised hour?" Wesley stirred his tea, pretending nonchalance.

"With Angel the way he is? What do you think?"

"What do you mean?"

"He was pretty-- I dunno. Shook up? Made me wonder. Maybe it'll make him--"

"Dangerous? I don't think so. Well, no more than usual, anyway." Wesley set the teaspoon down on the saucer.

"So you don't think he's in danger of turning back into Angelus or nothing?"

"No. In fact, quite the opposite. The curse was imposed in the first place so that Angel should suffer. Without Buffy..."

"There ain't going to be no moment of perfect happiness any time soon," Gunn finished for him.

"Well, I was going to say that without Buffy, Angel's suffering is assured." Wesley stared glumly down into his tea. "I fear there will be little of any sort of happiness for Angel for quite some time to come."

"Is that why you left tonight?" Gunn asked roughly.

"No, I--" Wesley started the explanation automatically, then broke off. He realised that he wasn't sure how best to articulate his reasons. He wasn't sure he wanted to, either. "I don't think so," he said after a long pause. _"_It was nothing to do with Angel. Not directly."

It seemed to be what Gunn had been waiting for. Wesley could almost see him unwind--or perhaps 'unfold' would have been a better way to describe the way Gunn straightened his long frame and lounged back into the corner of the sofa, cradling his teacup. Gunn had ignored his tea until that moment. Finally, he took a sip. He choked, and abruptly sat up. Wesley stared at him in some concern as Gunn swallowed quickly then hurriedly set the teacup and saucer down on the coffee table.

"Is something wrong?" Wesley asked. "The tea... ?"

"I don't like tea," Gunn said.

Wesley blinked. "Then why did you ask me for some?"

"I was sorta hoping I'd develop a taste for it this time, you know, being authentic and all."

Wesley gazed at him in bemusement. How could anyone not like tea? Still, Gunn was American, after all.

"Just a moment," Wesley said, getting to his feet. He picked up both teacups and headed for the kitchen.

He returned a minute later. "Try it now," he told Gunn, and handed him his teacup.

Gunn took a cautious sip--and choked again. "What did you put in this?"

"Now it's authentic," Wesley said, keeping a perfectly straight face. "I always include a shot of gin when I drink tea at this time of night." He took a sip of his own. "It's also good for sore throats."

He waited for the reaction to that one, but, to his surprise, Gunn remained calm--outwardly, at least.

"Where's the gin bottle?" Gunn asked levelly.

"In the cupboard under the window. Bottom shelf," Wesley told him as Gunn disappeared into the kitchen. "Glasses in the cupboard to the right," he called out almost as an afterthought.

Gunn returned, brandishing the gin bottle and a glass. He poured a generous measure into the glass and topped up Wesley's tea while he was at it.

"You don't want any tonic to go with it?" Wesley inquired solicitously. "Or bitters? There's some--"

"Don't need them. I can drink anything."

"Except, evidently, tea."

"Yeah." Gunn flashed him a smile in acknowledgment.

They sat there for a while, making their way through the bottle of gin in a silence that was definitely companionable this time. It was a rare thing, just the two of them and the silence. For once, there was nothing urgent to be attended to. Nothing they could do anything about right now, anyway, Wesley amended to himself as he remembered again that look on Angel's face.

And there was no one else there.

Gunn was sitting there beside him. So close. Smiling the big, disarming smile that Wesley seemed to be rewarded with--for some unfathomable reason--more frequently than any other person.

His mind couldn't seem to get past the fact of Gunn's nearness. Gunn was close. Close enough to touch. Close enough to do any manner of things to, if one were so inclined. If Gunn were so inclined.

Wesley considered Gunn again. Young, black, urban, male. And straight? That went with all the rest as part of the stereotype. But Wesley knew--none better--how misleading stereotypes could be when applied to individuals. The reality of Gunn had turned out to be very far from the expectations imposed by the stereotype. Fighting demons on a regular basis wasn't exactly part of it, for a start. So who knew how Gunn... what he... whether he was... open to certain options. Gunn had never shown an overt interest in any woman in particular, Wesley reminded himself. Then again, he couldn't recollect Gunn ever showing particular interest in a man, either.

Wesley realised that he had reasoned himself to a stalemate, which left him no closer to a decision than when he'd started. A leader had to make the hard decisions. There was only one way to find out, to settle the question that, more and more, intruded between them. Action, rather than deduction, was what the situation demanded.

He hadn't done anything like this before. Not with a man. Not since school. Well, not often since school.

Gunn noticed his fixed stare and raised one eyebrow questioningly.

Wesley cleared his throat.

"Gunn?"

"Yeah?" Gunn was looking hard at him now. Watchful and wary.

"There's something of which you should be aware."

Wesley closed his eyes. No. He shouldn't do this. He shouldn't throw away their friendship. There was still time to make up some excuse, to back away before he reached the point of no return.

He started at the feel of a light, unexpected touch against his cheek, and opened his eyes as Gunn's fingers trailed down the side of his face, catching ever so slightly on the arm of his glasses. Gunn looked him carefully in the eyes as he reached behind Wesley's ears and gently unhooked Wesley's glasses, first one side and then the other. The glasses were spirited away somewhere. Wesley didn't care where. They didn't matter. All that Wesley could see was right in front of him, so close that it was sharp and clear even to his naked eyes. The fact that he was completely unprepared for the turn the situation had taken didn't make it any less clear. What did this mean? Where was this going? His mind wanted time out to think things through, to reconsider--to _analyse_ \--just what this surprising turn of events might signify. But all he seemed able to do for the moment was to sit there and wait to see what happened next.

Gunn moved closer. Wesley kept expecting him to say something, but he remained unnervingly silent. And close. So close. Close enough that Wesley could feel Gunn's breath on his face. Better not to think at all.

It took almost no effort to find himself involved in a kiss. Gunn's lips were smooth and hard against his own. At first they were still--and then they weren't. Then there was just sensation. No thinking allowed. Wet and warm and soft and firm and just the right taste. Better than he'd expected. Better than anything. No thinking allowed. No thinking required. No thinking needed.

The kiss ended. Neither of them pulled away. Their lips still touched. Wesley hadn't wanted to end it, but thought he should. He felt a slight smile settling on his lips as he realised that Gunn must have felt the same.

"What you smiling about, English?"

Wesley was at a loss for words. But still he didn't pull away.

If the first kiss had been a question and an answer--or perhaps two questions--the second kiss was an emphatic statement. Gunn's statement.

This time, they broke apart.

"I didn't--" Wesley began.

"No, I did," said Gunn. "You don't always have to be the one in charge, you know."

Wesley stared at him. He hadn't anticipated this.

"You should stop doing that," Gunn continued, giving Wesley a mock-stern look.

Wesley stared at him some more. Somehow, this situation still wasn't progressing along any of the lines he had expected. Neither his hopes nor his fears were quite being realised. He was puzzled. And still very conscious of how close Gunn was, how easy it would be to bridge the gap between them a third time. And puzzled.

"Your eyes," Gunn clarified. "You're trying to look into both of mine at once and it's making you look all shifty-eyed."

They were still so close. Wesley closed his eyes for a moment; Gunn couldn't accuse him of looking shifty if his eyes were closed. His hand cupped the side of Gunn's face and he drew in a deep breath. His own need to touch took him by surprise. He wanted to explore Gunn's body, skin against skin, all at once. He forced himself to move his hand slowly, up Gunn's cheek, along his temple, fingertips moving lightly over warm hairless skin, ever upward.

He opened his eyes as his hand neared the top of Gunn's head. "How do you keep it so smooth?" It was a question he'd been meaning to ask for months.

Gunn grinned. "Trade secret."

Their lips found each other again. It wasn't a question or a statement this time. Just a kiss. A long, longed for, breathless kiss.

By the time it ended, Wesley was close to horizontal, head against a cushion in the corner of the sofa and legs dangling over the side. Gunn drew back slightly, easing his weight from Wesley's chest and half sitting up. He was watching Wesley through half-closed eyes, and a smile tugged at the corner of his kiss-swollen lips.

Wesley couldn't keep the grin off his face. It seemed as though neither of them could stop smiling. This was so different from... well, everything really. Wesley had never known anyone who elicited this sort of response in him. He'd never known anyone who... who made him happy, like this.

Gunn's gaze travelled down Wesley's chest. "So what you got on under them frogs?" he asked.

"Gunn!" Wesley only half-pretended to be affronted. "That's in the same league as asking a Scotsman what he wears under his kilt."

"You trying to tell me that you're wearing a sporran under there? Or maybe a haggis?"

Gunn grabbed hold of one of the 'frogs', pulling Wesley closer, while his other hand strayed down and outlined Wesley's hard cock beneath the thin fabric. The heel of Gunn's palm rested gently against Wesley's balls, his fingers reaching up, twisting the silk lightly around the shaft.

Wesley had to remind himself to keep breathing. More than once.

The hand left him, but only to slip past the frogging and beneath the edge of his dressing-gown. Wesley felt warm skin brush across the head of his cock and at that something caught, hard and tight inside him. His head went back helplessly, pushing even further into the cushion.

"Looks like we got something in common," Gunn whispered against Wesley's ear, and then his hand was gone and he was pushing his body down, pushing his hips hard against Wesley so that Wesley could feel the truth of his words.

Wesley groaned, then pushed back, wanting more. A frisson of panic shot through him as he realised how very thoroughly he was pinned down under Gunn's weight, unable to move more than an inch in any direction. Wesley shuddered, caught up in a confusing mixture of discomfort, desire and elation. To be offered something he'd hardly dared admit that he wanted, even to himself; for it to just be there, no complications... Who was he kidding? Of course there would be complications. He could worry about those later, though.

Gunn's weight shifted off him and Wesley was abruptly free to sit up. To fall into another kiss after he pulled himself up seemed the logical thing to do, so he let it happen. This one had an edge of desperation to it that had been absent before.

They pulled back from each other, quickly. Nothing more needed to be said. The dressing-gown was soon dealt with and left discarded on the floor. Naked, Wesley turned to Gunn, who was standing beside the sofa, bare-chested now. Wesley knelt to help Gunn with his jeans. Wesley laid his head against the denim for a moment, his jaw clenching as he felt the impatient movement beneath. And then the urgency gripped him, too, and he was tugging at the zip, the need to do away with this last barrier the only imperative.

It was with almost palpable relief that Wesley took Gunn's cock into his mouth, strong scent and indistinct taste combining as his mouth rediscovered long-remembered skills. His arms wrapped around Gunn's hips, and Gunn's fingers were in his hair. Finally, Wesley felt close enough. He let himself be drawn into a world of sensation. No thinking allowed. A world of heat and wetness and slow, deliberate movements, punctuated by the occasional gasp and a sudden flexing of fingers in his hair.

"Wes."

Slowly, the increasingly painful grip on his head intruded into his awareness, demanding his attention. Wesley realised that Gunn was trying to push him away. He didn't want to stop. He didn't. He--

"Wes!" Gunn would not be denied.

Inconsiderate. He was being inconsiderate. Gunn didn't want--

He pulled away--and Gunn was on the floor beside him, pushing the coffee table out of the way to give them more room. The tea things clattered as the table legs caught in the pile of the rug and a modicum of practicality struggled to assert itself in the confusion that was Wesley's usually well-ordered mind. Somehow, it succeeded.

This wasn't the right place.

"No, not here," Wesley said. "Just the thought of having to clean the rug again..."

Gunn obviously hadn't been expecting that. It seemed to stop him in his tracks a little.

"You been hosting wild parties on your nights off--and not inviting the rest of us?"

"No. Just the usual: fighting the minions of evil come to kill me. It was fluorescent demon slime, last time. Skilosh," Wesley explained tersely at Gunn's mildly curious look. And then, more gently, "Come on." He was surprised at the note he heard in his own voice. It wasn't that of Wesley-the-leader, issuing a command, or of Wesley-the-researcher. Nor did it sound quite like Wesley-the-friend, either. The note in his voice was something else again. Something new. He wasn't sure that he was entirely comfortable with it.

It was only a short distance to the bedroom; for once, Wesley was glad of the smallness of his flat. Gunn looked around him briefly as Wesley switched on the lamp by the bed. Wesley could see him taking in the plain white walls, the wardrobe, the bookshelves and the bed. He seemed to approve.

Wesley felt... odd as they solemnly made their way to the bed. He wished now that he had let things continue in the sitting room, even allowing for the rug. If they'd just been able to keep going out there, without having to stop, without having to think, he might have just lost himself in the moment. But now he was forced to confront the reality. His friend. He had brought his friend to his bedroom. To his bed.

Wesley lay back on the pillows, just as he had been before Gunn knocked on the door and the world turned upside down. He made himself look at Gunn, the whole long, hard-muscled length of him, dark skin thrown into relief against stark, white sheets. It was a sight he'd honestly never expected to be given the right to see.

Gunn looked back at him. Still, he said nothing but there was something in his expression that calmed Wesley, somehow. Gunn laid his hand on Wesley's shoulder, brought it down Wesley's body in a smooth, unbroken stroke and Wesley let go of his misgivings.

No thinking allowed.

Free to touch, at last. Skin against skin, at last. He found that he was dropping kisses here and there up and down Gunn's neck. But even as he pressed closer, something in him wanted to draw back, exercise caution, not reveal too much of himself--which was somewhat ridiculous, considering everything that had already occurred tonight. In any event, another part of him scoffed at safety, and that was the part that had control of his lips, it seemed. And of his legs, which were curling around one of Gunn's, enabling him to press hard against Gunn's thigh. Wesley groaned.

Gunn moved suddenly, abandoning the almost passive role he'd assumed since they'd moved to the bed. The element of surprise gave him the edge over Wesley's battle-honed reflexes and in not much more than a moment Wesley found himself flat on his back covered by nothing but six-odd feet of warm skin and muscle. Hard, warm skin and muscle.

Gunn's tongue slid past one ear lobe, sending a shiver through Wesley that somehow sent all feeling racing to his cock.

"Roll over," Gunn murmured, moving just far enough away to allow Wesley to comply. Wesley did so.

There was the sound of a drawer being pulled open behind him, and then of Gunn rummaging through the contents.

"Second drawer," Wesley said, and heard the rattle of contents as the first drawer was pushed shut and another pulled out for inspection.

Wesley was well aware of the contents of that drawer; he half-expected Gunn to make some comment along the lines of Wesley being like a boy scout, always prepared. But he didn't.

Wesley waited, wondering what Gunn had in mind. None of this had gone as expected so far; maybe he should stop trying to anticipate and just surrender himself to the experience. No thinking allowed. That's what he kept reminding himself.

Finally, there came a light touch on Wesley's back, a finger skimming down his spine. So innocuous an action, and yet the breath stuck in Wesley's lungs and his teeth were clenching. He turned his face into the pillow as Gunn's finger arrived at his waist--and was gone.

Then there was the shock of cold between his shoulders. Gunn had found the jar Wesley kept in the drawer. Wesley offered a quiet protest as he realised that Gunn was really going to take his time about things, and tried to roll onto his side.

"Just stay where you are." There was a note of command in Gunn's voice that Wesley hadn't heard directed at him before. And there was a hand holding him down.

A frisson of something that wasn't fear went through Wesley as he realised that he had no choice. The decision was not his to make. He had no choice but to let the burden of responsibility be lifted from him. Compliance was freedom. He settled back on his stomach.

He felt the flat of Gunn's hand against his shoulder, the oil warming as Gunn rubbed it into his skin, kneading out the tension that had taken Wesley over during the events of the past few days. Slowly, he relaxed into Gunn's touch, enjoying the slow, deliberate strokes, until there was nothing but the mattress beneath his heavy limbs and the feel of Gunn's hands, directing his body how to feel, how to be.

Gunn's hands reached the curve of Wesley's backside and the stroking continued there, moving in ever decreasing circles, slowing, until fingers slid gently between his thighs, encouraging them apart.

The warm touch moved back up, then stroked down to his thighs in longer movements till Wesley could feel the heat tingling all the way down to his toes.

He thought at first that Gunn had touched him there by mistake, no more than a butterfly touch against the cleft between his buttocks. But the fingers returned, too often for it to be accidental. Just lightly teasing. Testing him, Wesley thought in a brief moment of clarity--and sudden perturbation.

It had been so long since he'd done this. He hadn't really intended... But part of him wanted it. Needed it, even. Needed to join with Gunn, to connect completely. To be no longer alone.

The fingers were back, and teasing no more. Deliberate strokes, reminiscent of those with which Gunn had started, but more contained this time, more intimate. Gradually, the fingers became more insistent, taking their strokes deeper and deeper. Bit by bit, the lassitude seeped from Wesley, and was replaced with an increasing need--impatience--for more. Gunn was taking his own sweet time about this. What was keeping him? Wesley couldn't remember the last time he'd needed someone--a specific someone--so fiercely.

And then Gunn was there. Fingers again, easing the way, easing in, pushing harder. He was too big--Wesley knew this had been a bad idea. Too big, too much and--

Gunn's arms came around him from behind, his chest was sticking to Wesley's back, slick with sweat, and then there were lips against his neck. Wet heat against his neck, hard, wonderful heat inside him. And that touch, that made up for it all. How could he have forgotten this? Pushing and needing and wanting and--

"No!" Gunn sounded as though the word had been ripped from his throat, reluctant and hurting. Wesley went still beneath him.

"Gunn?" His voice felt strange: he had forgotten that using speech was an option open to him.

Gunn withdrew from him in a swift, sudden motion. Wesley ignored the shock of separation and rolled over immediately. "Are you all right?" he demanded.

The expression on Gunn's face was somewhat obscured in the dim light. "I need to--" He stopped. "I think you should be on your back." He moved suddenly, the lamplight illuminating the planes of his face, and Wesley was suddenly reminded of just how young Gunn was. It was easy to forget in the midst of the daily battle against the forces of darkness--or in the midst of lying back and letting one's... lover to do all the work.

"Then I'll lie on my back." Wesley felt remarkably at ease considering that he was sitting here discussing the merits of different sexual positions with his best friend--and that his cock was dying for attention after being interrupted in the middle of... something he really wished hadn't been interrupted.

He arranged the pillows behind him and lay back, looking up at Gunn, opening himself up to Gunn's scrutiny.

Gunn drew Wesley's feet up over his shoulders and then he was upon him again, but minus the control that Wesley had accepted without question until a moment ago. Wesley could feel Gunn tremble against him, his composure broken. Wesley had thought-- well, he wasn't quite sure what he had thought, but he hadn't expected that Gunn was so, could be so easily...

He drew Gunn's face down to his own and captured his lips in a kiss, trying to impart reassurance and strength to someone who suddenly needed it.

It seemed to work. Gunn slipped in more easily this time. A few experimental thrusts on each side and then they found a rhythm that suited them both. Wesley was no longer sure who--if anyone--was in charge. They had achieved a balance now. An equality. Perhaps this was the connection they'd been striving for.

Gunn's hand encircled Wesley's cock, matching and complementing their movements in an accompaniment as old and familiar as it was new and exciting. Wesley almost resented the approaching climax. It would take him out of himself, away from Gunn. And then he was no longer in charge of himself. It stormed through him, hot and tight and shaking.

Gunn was there, waiting for him, when he came back from the other place. Dark eyes on his face as he continued to move in long, unhurried thrusts. After a while, Wesley's heart ceased thundering in his ears and resumed its customary position, though it was still working hard. He smiled.

The rhythm changed and Gunn was moving faster, no longer unhurried. Then he stilled. An expression almost of pain engulfed his features and a small, unwilling noise sounded deep in his throat, his hands gripping Wesley's shoulders as he came. Wesley couldn't take his eyes from Gunn's face, wouldn't have wanted to, even if he'd been able to move enough to do so. This was his, and no one else's. His arms came up around Gunn and he let his hands drift up and down Gunn's back, making wordless, soothing noises as Gunn collapsed against him.

As they lay there together, Wesley soon became aware of how heavy Gunn was, and how hot his sweaty skin. Wesley's lungs laboured with the effort of trying to breathe; it was going to be another stifling day. Finally, he could take no more and gave an exaggerated wriggle with his hips. Taking the hint, Gunn rolled off him. Wesley sat up and retrieved two small white towels from the bedside drawer. Without a word, he handed one to Gunn.

Gunn's eyebrows rose. "Nice," he said. "But then, what else could you expect from a man with a robe like that?" He nodded in the general direction of the sitting room.

Wesley tried to respond in kind, failed, and turned his head away, towards the window.

"Virginia," he said, by way of explanation.

"Ah," said Gunn, but his hand felt for Wesley's, and held it tight.

They lay there for a short while, only their hands touching, letting the silence speak for them. So silent and still were they that Wesley began to wonder if Gunn had gone to sleep. Finally, Gunn drew his hand away, and then he was out of bed and across the room almost before Wesley had time to blink. He pulled back the curtain and looked out the window. The dawn light was just beginning to touch the world outside.

Gunn turned back to Wesley. Words were probably appropriate at this juncture, but Wesley was as unsure as Gunn seemed to be about just what to say. He was terribly unsure about the etiquette appropriate for such an occasion. Just how did one face one's best friend when all the rules had just been broken so completely? But he didn't want Gunn to leave--which was surely the subject that Gunn was intending to broach. Not so soon.

"Stay," Wesley said.

He waited. Gunn's face was difficult to read--strange for a man who never hid his opinions. Then he smiled.

Wesley smiled, too. Perhaps it was possible for the rules to be re-defined.

Gunn pulled the curtain back across the window and most of the room was swathed in semi-darkness once more. The side of the bed dipped and Gunn was lying at Wesley's side again. They didn't touch--it was too hot and their bodies too sweaty for that.

"So why did you come knocking at the door, Charles?" It was a question that Wesley needed an answer to--and almost hoped he didn't receive one.

Gunn didn't respond at once. "I thought you could do with some company," he said at last.

Wesley let relief consume him. He should have trusted that Gunn would not phrase his answer in such a way as to make them both feel needlessly uncomfortable. The last vestige of tension between them banished, Wesley relaxed. At last they had made it to the other side.

Wesley reached across to the lamp beside the bed and switched it off. He lay back, and found that he was looking at the ceiling again, though this time his mind wasn't wandering. At last he could focus. The immediate future no longer worried him--well, no more than usual. He was the leader and he would lead. Tonight they would support Angel in his grief--though nothing need be said--and deal with whatever fresh crisis the new day brought with it, as they always did.

Tonight was still hours away, though.

The morning light was creeping in around the curtain. The shadows on the ceiling were thinning, lengthening, changing. The lonely man--or tree--in the corner had changed along with the rest. He was definitely human now, and he was no longer alone. Another shadow man had joined him. Wesley watched for a few minutes as the light grew brighter and the boundaries between the two shapes above him became more and more indistinct until they melded into one and faded away.

He turned his cheek against the warmth of Gunn's shoulder and let sleep claim him.


End file.
